For a heartbeat I think perhaps?—
Then the troops pivot and open fire outward.
The killing field blooms.
Bodies drop in waves, dust erupting in plumes that carry the smell of scorched earth and blood even through the reinforced glass.
My stomach twists violently.
They dropped the field on purpose.
Spectacle.
I pull my compad free and capture the flicker as it happens again, fingers trembling.
If I survive, I want proof.
The thought arrives cold and clear.
I do not intend to die ignorant.
I crawl along the catwalk toward the server access, keeping low as gunfire ricochets through the atrium. The metallic tang of fear coats my tongue, thick and undeniable, but beneath it something steadier takes hold.
Pattern recognition.
Data.
Truth.
If this is staged, the logs will show it.
The server room door is ajar when I reach it, and I slip inside, sealing it behind me as boots thunder in the corridor beyond.
The hum of the servers is steady, indifferent.
I initiate a full archive download, watching the progress bar inch forward while the sound of gunfire reverberates through the walls. My palms are slick, my breathing shallow, and every sense feels amplified—the cool air against my skin, the smell of heated circuitry, the tremor of distant impacts vibrating through the floor.
The first shots hit the door, metal buckling under force.
I don’t stop typing.
“Give me something,” I murmur to the system, as though it can hear me.
The progress bar climbs.
Seventy percent.
Seventy-five.
The hinges scream as they tear free.
I yank the external drive loose at eighty-three percent and shove it into my bag just as the door crashes inward.
Without looking back, I dart toward the secondary maintenance hatch and force it open, the narrow shaft beyond smelling of dust and old wiring.
Behind me, armored boots enter the room.
I crawl into the darkness, the drive pressed against my chest, the sound of gunfire and orbital bombardment shaking the station as the cruiser above hangs in silent orbit, Alliance markings gleaming, immaculate and false.
